


Geppetto

by arcaneScribbler



Series: Player Count 8 + 2 [8]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: "Pinocchio" from the Striders' POV, (bird-human anyway), A Strider Autobiography, Associated Colors Are IMPORTANT, Doomed Timelines, Everyone lives, Fix-It, Gen, HOWWWW, Human Lil Cal, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not good at tagging, Mute Lil Cal, Post-Sburb, Strider Family, cyber-human Lil Hal, how do you feelings, human "Davesprite", post-victory, slightly illustrated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 06:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaneScribbler/pseuds/arcaneScribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is DIRK STRIDER (or is it BRO?) and once upon a time, you were best friends with a boy no one else could hear.<br/>Your name is CROW STRIDER and being a Rogue of Doom is... you'll just go with <em>interesting</em> and leave it at that.<br/>Your name is DAVE STRIDER and you really should have expected something like this to happen.</p>
<p>In which an unconventional 'fairy tale' finds its way to Happily Ever After.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Geppetto

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pinocchio](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1464967) by [arcaneScribbler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaneScribbler/pseuds/arcaneScribbler). 



> **Note for readers using a mobile device:** Some of the letters I use for 'static-text' (or in this case, music notes) don't seem to show up on my phone, and my fics often contain hover-text, so it may be better to read this on a computer. Sorry for the inconvenience!
> 
> **EDIT 04/01/2015:** Added a bit of clarification with the mention of the ex-cherubs since Khaleb/Caliborn was still unconscious at this point.
> 
> **EDIT 11/17/2016:** Did a little bit of rephrasing just because, I guess? Shrug.

Your first memory is the same, because your origin was the same, regardless of the different destinations. One to Texas to raise a child, the other to Atlantis to be one.

_(Dimness, a distant laugh, a gentle, barely-there hum of sound, and a soft, warm place to curl up and rest. Safety.)_

The humming means you’re safe. The laughter means he isn’t.

You _hate_ that laugh.

=====> Crow: Reminisce. 

He never shut up.

Always, always ‘laughing’.

No matter how much the loud cackling hurt your ears, you hated the quiet moments the most. Not even blasting your music at top volume could block out the slow, endless seeping of liquid _misery_ dripping from the stretched-thin corners of a fake smile that sidled up alongside his hushed, broken-record ‘chuckling’ whenever you closed your eyes.

(He wasn’t laughing. He was never laughing.)

(He was sobbing.)

=====>

HA HA, HEE HEE, HOO HOO. There was no escaping that shitty not-laugh. When he wasn’t cackling loud enough to rupture your poor abused eardrums- or worse, hiding somewhere being the universe's most depressing psychic broken record-, he was scribbling it all over the walls in bright yellow.

You were sure it would drive you crazy if you gave it the chance.

So why the hell are you here, staring at the same eye-searing splashes of sloppily graffiti'd text over and over again? They’re the reason you took all the light bulbs out; you should hate them. Alchemize some tacky wallpaper or something and see if Sprite-writing can be covered up.

But... You’ve been noticing something weird about the writing ever since you woke up as a bird-boy. It keeps grabbing your attention. Like the way the words flicker a little when you look at them out of the corner of your eyes, except more naggy, like you’re forgetting something obvious that Bro will laugh at you about later. (Would have laughed at you about.) _  
_

“What were you trying to tell me, C-man?”

=====>

You brush your fingers across the curve of an H. Flecks of yellow flake off in certain spots like actual paint. You can feel a sort of pressure in the back of your head— did you just steal a little bit of Doom just now? Why is there Doom in the _walls_ of all places?

=====>

You do it again. The pressure gets worse. More yellow flakes away, uncovering a few little patches of faded, timeworn pale blue.

Oh. You’re not stealing Doom from the walls; you’re stealing Calsprite’s words from Doom. Or maybe the Doom from Calsprite's words? Does it matter?

Wait, shit, what if it _does_ matter? How will you know if you fucked up? Will you spark off an avalanche of Perfectly Generic Objects? Will the wall turn _into_ a Perfectly Generic Object? Are Dead ~~Daves~~ Crows going to start appearing? What if you doom the whole timeline without even realizing it until it's too late? What if—

=====> Crow: Just do the Doomy Thing already. 

You know what, fuck it. You're a Strider. Striders don't waste time worrying like scared little sissies. So what if you screw up and the wall explodes or turns into paradox slime? There's Sprite writing all over the place.

It's just like any other kind of training; keep trying until you get it right, then try harder.

(Besides, you managed to save your Rose’s dream-self before you even changed Titles. Might as well find out what you can really do, right?)

=====>

You reach for the Doom tangled through the words on the wall and _pull_ until your head is throbbing and once-hidden letters burn so bright you have to switch to your old shades until the light dies down enough for you to read the secret message Calsprite left behind.

=====>

**heLP me**   
**I cANT sToP**   
**PLeAse**

And here you wrote off your Sprite’s graffiti obsession as him being fucking insane.

=====>

“Shit, man... Looks like you had it rough. Sorry for yelling at you so much, dude.”

(Then again, you’re the one talking to a wall, so...)

=====>

Suddenly, the yellow Sprite-writing crumbles away entirely and a familiar shade of blue swims across the white plaster in little squiggles. You kind of just stare at it for a bit.

(Hey, the wibbly lines are turning into letters again.)

=====>

**ReD boY**   
**heLPeD me**   
**ThANks**

Well  _that_  isn’t freaky at all.

=====>

You solemnly fist-bump the wall and abscond.

(A strange, soft little hum follows you out the door.)

=====> Dirk: Locate shower. 

Okay, drama’s over, Sawtooth dragged Squarewave off somewhere to have Words about boundaries and personal space, and everyone has checked in, including both sets of trolls and the former cherubs. (well, Callie, at least. Her brother's still out cold.) The next order of business is clear.

You share a Look with your alternate self. “Mind giving me the grand tour, dude?”

Look received. “Itchin’ for the sweet, sweet bliss of the longest, hottest shower your skin can stand?”

“Damn straight.”

“Wondered why Rosie was so insistent on that particular addition to the sky-house,” your Bro _(your **Bro!!** )_ comments lazily from his perch on a cozy-looking love-seat, a needle in one hand and the beginnings of a Geromy plush in the other (his stitches are, surprisingly, far sloppier than your own neat handiwork— maybe he just hasn’t had much practice). “Glad it went to a good cause.”

(You are definitely not giddier than a schoolgirl in a shoujo manga being noticed by her Senpai. There is no fanboying going on here, nope. Not one bit.)

“The best,” you say in tandem with ~~yourself~~ ~~Dave’s real brother~~ Broderick.

Broderick. ‘Bro-Dirk.’ Ha. Ha ha ha. (You get to be the ‘original.’ (Stop being so _relieved,_ you sick fuck.))

“Okay, no,” Dave protests, sitting on the shitty futon with Crow (who’s leaning on him, half-asleep), “I need to take a piss and I am NOT in the mood to find out if I can still time-travel just to avoid bursting my bladder waiting for you to GTFO.”

“Shu’up,” Bird-Twin grumbles, blindly whapping Dave off the futon with one wing.

“Whoa-!”

Thunk, goes one useless ass onto the floor.

“...For the record, that didn’t happen.”

“If you’re gonna go then _go,_ twerp.”

“I’m going, I’m going, Jegus!”

Aaaand off he goes.

“If you don’t save some hot water for my turn, there is an 87% chance I’ll hack your Wardrobifier to add itching powder to all your clothes...” Hal mumbles sleepily from the floor, a thin wire plugged into one wrist.

“Just go to sleep already, princess.”

“Mmph...”

======> Dave: Take care of business. 

Alright, you’ve got about 4 minutes, 31 seconds (30, 29, 28...) before Bro will start yelling at you to hurry up. Better make this quick.

=====>

=====>

There we go. Much better.

=====>

Huh. This bathroom's actually kind of sweet. There's room to move around and everything. You've still got 2 minutes (16 seconds, 15, 14...) left.

=====> Dave: Snoop. 

_What the fuck is that._

=====>

**_Holy shit!!_ **

=====>

You yank the shower curtain back into place and slam the bathroom door shut.

=====>

You are once again DIRK STRIDER, about five minutes in the past.

You’re safe. All of you. The Game is over. For the first time in your life, you’re home.

You’re happy.

=====>

The next thing you know, Dave is screaming for ~~you~~ his Bro at the top of his lungs.

=====> Dirk: Be the other Dirk. 

You are now BRODERICK STRIDER, and the maddening quiet in the back of your head you woke with here in this new world feels... different, somehow. Expectant.

You flashstep down the hall, your younger self trailing like a shadow at your heels.

When you get to the bathroom door, Dave is already outside, glaring at you through his shades.

“Bro what the _fuck!_ I know he was your main man and all but-...”

=====>

(Your lil bro is talking. You know he is. His lips are moving and everything.)

(You should be listening to him.)

(All you can hear is the quiet.)

=====> Bro: Enter. 

You casually hip-check Dave out of the way and— oh, hey. The door just slammed against the wall with the force of a stampede of panicked Bronies before you could open it. It seems younger you is quite the nimble little shit.

=====>

You find him crouched on the cold tile, one hand frozen on the tacky shower curtain.

You can see a child-sized silhouette behind it.

=====>

There is a puppet sitting in the bathtub.

It’s... lifelike. _Extremely_ lifelike. Blows the shitty mannequins in children’s clothing stores right out of the water.

It’s wearing a baggy blue shirt over an orange tux, bling mysteriously missing. The shoes are a bit scuffed. The gloves look a little too big. A grey baseball cap hangs low over its face.

(Exactly the way you imagined him to be, except... well. Still a puppet.)

=====> Vessel: Reach out. 

_‘ ’_

Your chest hurts. | The fragment of your soul that went cold and numb the day you began the Game _screams._

_‘ . . . ’_

Why does your chest hurt? | It’s being pulled away.

_‘ . . . k . . . ’_

The pain isn’t even where you were stabbed; it’s too high— | So slow... the pull is weak; hesitant.

_‘ . . . r k . . . ’_

It’s where his gloved little hands would link together when he’d hang from your shoulders. | It can’t get free like this.

_‘ . . . i r k . . . ’_

_That you, lil man...?_ | So you tear it loose yourself.

_‘ . . . D i r k . . . ! ’_

=====>

“Cal...?” one of you is asking, shaky, while the other calls out, firmer, “Cal...!”

_‘...♪♫♪♫...’_

A familiar hum answers you both, clearer than you’ve ever heard it before.

=====> Lil Cal: Do the Lifey Thing. 

The puppet is glowing.

Features soften beneath the light’s touch—

=====>

...There is a young boy sleeping in the bathtub.

“Holy shit.” (When did Dave come in? ...Ehh, doesn’t matter right now.)

=====> Broderick: Take the boy out of the tub. 

He’ll get sick if you leave him there.

(Besides, you’re not letting him go any time soon, and judging by the look in little-you’s eyes neither is he.)

You should—

“...The hell?”

What’s this on his back?

=====>

You carefully sit Cal up on the toilet seat (he lost his hat somewhere between there and the tub; you’ll get it later). You take off the gloves first. (His nails are like little talons.)

Then you start pulling at his shirt. It snags almost immediately. (Shit. You hope you didn’t just hurt him.)

Better take this slow and steady.

“Ew, _Bro-”_

Younger-you swipes his hand across his throat, followed by a _very rude_ , satisfyingly obscure gesture. (Dave probably has no clue what it means. He looks offended anyway. You feel oddly proud of both of them.)

Just gotta...

=====>

The back of his suit is ripped awkwardly, making way for a pair of little golden-feathered wings. They're colored a lot like how Angel-Dave's were during the Game, minus the glowing, and seem kind of... petite. (Doll-sized.)

“...Heh. You really are a guardian angel, huh lil man.”

Little-you inches over to kneel by your side, fingers flicking in signs you half-remember from the ASL classes you took for kicks years back. (He’s signing something along the lines of ‘little bird’, you think.)

He reaches out to press one shaking hand against Cal’s chest the same way you’ve been touching him; like he’s scared he’ll shatter but needs to know he’s real.

=====>

You’ve got your kid back twofold and then some. You’ve got your life back, too, shitty as it is (was?), plus a great big ‘family’ from out of nowhere that’s almost as off in the head as you are.

You’re a fucked-up Texan street-ninja Geppetto who was raised by his Pinocchio, phallic noses included courtesy of your smuppets with SBURB as Monstro the sadistic Whale, and you just got your happy ending.

(You have a sneaking suspicion you might also be this story’s Blue Fairy. Maybe you’re Jiminy Cricket? ...Naaaah, you’re totally the Blue Fairy. You chopped a fucking meteor in half with a sword; you can rock a fancy ballgown any day. Dave can be that brat who turned into a donkey.)

You get the feeling it’s going to be a good day.


End file.
